


unresolved.

by iStuhler



Series: dancing in the dark. [2]
Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:31:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iStuhler/pseuds/iStuhler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jay has something he wants Nick to have.</p><p>Directly follows Another Party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unresolved.

Gatsby drags a slow hand through his hair, eyes flicking from the burning cigarette cradled between his fingers up to Nick, deep brown meeting brown. He extends his hand out with the two fingers holding the cigarette pointed.

"Here," he says, voice rough.

Nick reaches over and plucks the cigarette from between Gatsby's fingers, and slides it between his lips easily. He inhales, holds it in for a brief moment, and then exhales. The smoke drifts around his head, then dissipates into the fresh night air.

Gatsby makes a quiet noise, almost a grunt, and Nick glances over.

"What is it?"

Gatsby shakes his head. "Just thinking," is all he says.

Nick shrugs, and takes another breath of smoke. He knows Gatsby will tell him, he always does.

And he's right; a few moments later, Gatsby voices his thought.

"Nick, I was just… I was thinking," he starts, and Nick can hear unsureness running like threads through his voice.

"I was… before, I was involved in a business of sorts," Gatsby continues as he scrapes his blunt nails on the dock, paint chipping off, "and I just… I've been thinking lately, and…"

Nick stubs the cigarette out on the damp dock wood, fighting against the urge to tune Gatsby out. Gatsby has a point, he forces himself to think, and even if it takes him a while, he'll get there.

Gatsby scrubs at his chin for a moment, and then looks over at Nick. "I have some things, in my house. I want you to have them," he finally says.

Nick raises a brow. "But…" he starts, but Gatsby shakes his head.

"I know," he quickly explains, "it's a stupid idea. Really stupid. But… these things are really important. And you need to have them, Nick." He turns to look at Nick with a sense of intense urgency in his eyes and, coupled with the pathetic attempt at looking like a dog that had just been kicked, Nick had no choice but to agree.

"Fine," Nick says quietly, and he glances up at Gatsby.

Gatsby, who's got this look of complete elation on his face. A grin's spread across the lower half of it, and his eyes are shining bright. "Thank you," he says sincerely.

Nick can't help but smile.

*

It's late the next night when Gatsby and Nick meet up in the backyard of Nick's house.

Gatsby leans against the tree that Nick planted himself last summer, and he reaches up and plucks a small ripe apple from one of its branches. Nick had bought the tree over from Tom and Daisy's old backyard. He had talked to the owner of the place and they had let him take the tree. It took a little effort even though it was a smaller tree, but he managed.

Nick glances up at Gatsby's house. "You sure you want me to do this?"

Gatsby nods, and speaks around a mouthful of apple. "Positive."

Nick sighs. "Only if you come with me," he says, turning to look at Gatsby.

Gatsby stares back. "I'm not going to break into my own house," he says incredulously.

"It's not yours," Nick tells him. "It was, but it's not yours anymore." He raises his eyes again to look at the house, takes in the boarded up windows and the plywood nailed over the back door. He can remember when the windows would be flooded with light and the backyard would be teaming with people and the air would reek of alcohol.

Gatsby sighs quietly, and Nick knows he's thinking about the same thing.

"Do you miss it, Jay?" Nick asks gently.

"Let's go," Gatsby replies, striding off towards his house with what can only be described as purpose in his steps.

Nick's eyebrows knot in concern for a brief second, but before he can think anymore he pushes off the tree and follows behind Gatsby.

*

Nick steps up to the door and reaches out, frowning as his fingers slide over the rough plywood. “I hope you brought something to take care of this, Jay,” he says, turning towards Gatsby.

Gatsby holds up a metal crowbar. “Will this do?”

Nick nods, and takes the metal, then makes quick and easy work of removing the plywood. He sets it aside, and then just as suddenly as it was off, he hisses and grabs his hand.

“What?” Gatsby looks concerned, leaning towards Nick.

“Splinter,” Nick gets out through clenched teeth, peering through the darkness at his hand. He can see it's bleeding already, but he can't see the splinter itself.

Gatsby tuts quietly, and gestures towards the handkerchief in Nick's pocket. Nick pulls it out with a quiet thanks, and wraps it around his hand.

Now that the plywood's gone, it's much easier to gain access to the dark monstrosity of a house. Nick's fingers curl around the knob of the door, and as he twists the handle and pushes the door open, he can suddenly smell a house thick with years of decay and rot.

Grimacing, Gatsby slides past Nick and enters the back room. His eyes roam around, coming to rest on every single thing he sees. “This was my... oh, and this... and...” he trails off, walking through the next door and into the kitchen.

It was once a grand place, his house. But now it's just sitting in its own filth; wood turning brown, food rotten, glass broken. Gatsby runs his hand along the marble counter and then rubs his fingers together; they're coated with dust.

And then both of them see it at the same time: the spot. It's a dark, crimson stain in the floor, shaped oddly, almost as if there were--  
“Two people,” Gatsby finishes Nick's thought, his voice dull.

Nick glances over at him, and for the first time that evening Nick sees him flicker once, then twice. Gatsby stares morosely at the spot.

Nick remembers it like it was yesterday. He remembers the sound of the gunshot, he remembers the feeling in his chest when he ran into the room and saw Gatsby lying there. He remembers the feeling of the blood on his hands, he remembers the tightening of his gut when he watched the life drain out of Gatsby's eyes.

He shakes his head, then, and looks up at Gatsby again. “Let's go upstairs,” Nick says gently, then steps over the spot and heads towards the stairs.

He doesn't look to see if Gatsby's following.

*

As soon as Nick's foot hits the top step, Gatsby materializes in front of him. “This way,” he says, and turns on his heel towards one of the many bedrooms.

Nick follows behind, curious.

They enter the bedroom, and Nick's jaw slackens. He's never seen this room before.

The windows are draped with what were once white gauzy curtains, but are now yellow pieces of ruined fabric. Dark velour curtains line the outside of the window, held up by golden tassels. The bed is a four-poster that sits majestically in the center of the room, as if it's proud of its molding sheets and rotting wood. The canopy on the bed matches the windows, and Nick reaches out to touch a tassel gently. There's an old wooden desk with an equally as old chair, and there's a tall bureau that stretches almost to the ceiling.

Dust puffs out in a small cloud and a tiny spider falls out and onto the floor. Nick steps on it quickly.

“Where are these things you want me to have, Jay?” he asks, eyes roaming over the walls. The green paint is peeling off the walls like bananas, and Nick lifts a hand and pulls a long strip off with a quiet tearing noise.

“Up here,” Gatsby says, pointing to the corner of the room.

Nick follows his finger and sees one area of the ceiling that looks... different from the rest, almost newer.

“Up there?”

Gatsby nods.

Nick scrubs a hand through his hair, and then walks over to the desk. He takes the chair and drags it across the room, through the dust, and sets it below where Gatsby indicated. He climbs up and pushes up on the ceiling.

It gives way with a crack and a shower of white dust, one small section easily moving back into the bowels of the house, exposing the attic. Nick coughs, and peers through the darkness.

“Right there!” Gatsby cries, pointing at something that Nick can't see.

“Where?”

“There, can't you see it? It's there, that corner of a box.”

Nick reaches his arms up into the hole and pulls out a cardboard shoebox. “This it?”

Gatsby nods eagerly. “Come down here, let me show you. Fix the ceiling, would you?'

*

They sit at Gatsby's kitchen table. Or, rather, Nick sits. Gatsby paces.

“Will you just sit down, Jay?” Nick says finally.

Gatsby sits, but his foot taps up and down restlessly. Nick shoots him a look, and he stops. “I'm sorry,” Gatsby says, “I'm just... just open it.”

Nick slides his fingers underneath the tape that holds the lid on. It's dry and brittle, and easily cracks under pressure. He pulls the lid off of the box, and sees--

“Jay,” he gapes, eyes staring at the piles and piles of money in the box.

“That's enough to last you the rest of your life,” Gatsby says, a strange look on his face.

“Where did-- where did you get all this?” Nick reaches a hand in and picks up a stack of bills. He runs his finger along the edges, fanning out the hundred dollar bills.

Gatsby swallows, and looks away. “I told you, Nick,” he says, voice tight. “I was involved in a business, and this... this was the result. I was going to go away for a long while once I had gathered the funds, but...”

Nick looks up at Gatsby and purses his lips together. “We can still go away, Jay,” he says quietly. “I'll go, and you can come along. Free of charge.”

Gatsby just shakes his head. “No,” he replies, just as quiet. “I can't leave. I've tried. I just... disappear.” He looks at the ground. “I lose touch with the world and I can't feel anything and then everything goes... it goes black.”

Silence.

Nick stares at the wooden floorboards beneath his feet.

“I didn't know, Jay,” he says after a while. “I didn't know.”


End file.
